


Four More Songs

by pink_ink



Series: Four Eight [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mickey swearing like Mickey does, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a follow-up/continuation to 'The Lights', but can be read alone.<br/>Mickey's POV, 4x08</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four More Songs

“How much time you got left?” Mickey’s mouth was against Ian’s ear. It would have been a whisper if it wasn’t so fuckin loud in here. Ian twisted into his shout, head dipping, dragging Mickey’s lip with it. God. How. Much Time. Seriously. 

Ian pulls his head back, looks Mickey in the eyes. “S’not like I’m wearing a watch, Mick. Just this.” He flips that little tie around his neck. That fucking smirk. 

“Obviously, asshole,” Mickey huffed. “But you got a time you’re done, right?” 

Ian’s eyes flicked down, two fingers brushing Mickey’s belt. “Why? You still hard for me?” 

_Don’t groan. Don’t fuckin lean in to him. Gonna make it worse._ “Maybe. Might have to rub this shit out in the bathroom if you don’t take care of it soon.” It was supposed to be a threat, but didn’t sound like one. At all.

Ian laughed. _Laughed._ He pressed his fingers harder against Mickey, added another hand on his hip. He leaned in, brushing his cheek against Mickey’s, mouth finding his ear again. “Probably like four more songs.” His tongue reached out to flick against Mickey’s earlobe, pressing harder into his ear. “Four more songs, and I’m going to find somewhere I can fuck you.” 

_Fuck yes. Fuck. Yes,_ Mickey thinks. He manages a grunt. Ian’s breath is hot in his ear. “You just kissed me like you were fucking me, Mick. Exactly how you fuck me. I can’t wait to feel more of that, feel you kiss me like I’m inside you.” 

Mickey’s eyes closed against the lights that swung down. His breath didn’t even sound like his. 

“Four more songs,” Ian said. “Go get another drink. Go rub that dick out if you need to. Just get it hard for me again when I want it hard.” 

Mickey opened his eyes, forced himself to roll them. “What about that fuckin party?”  
Ian pulled his head back, gave a smirk and a wink. He jumped back on the platform, and turned away, body starting to sway again. 

 

They had to stamp his stupid hand so he could get back inside, but it was worth it for the way the cold air hit him like a punch. A punch to the fuckin dick. _Good. Maybe it’ll stop fuckin screaming at him. No way is he gonna jizz in his hand in a bathroom stall, tons of dudes going at it all around him. No fuckin way._

 

He can see his breath, of course, in the cold. He watches it shove out of him as he fumbles with his coat. He had stomped out of there with his coat covering his crotch. Didn’t want some asshole to get the wrong idea. He slips the coat on, pats his pockets for cigarettes. Two left. He knows what he needs to save the second for. 

 

He had kissed him. Kissed him. Big fuckin deal, right? Well, yeah. I guess. He’d kissed him, before. Still. He’s never kissed Ian like last night. He had let himself be kissed. He had _wanted_ to be kissed, kissed hard and soft, kissed like the world was falling to pieces. And then. Then, he had kissed him here. Here. This was different. Even better. This. This was…

His smile surprises him. He wouldn’t have even known if the cold hadn’t snaked into his lungs, sending up a cough. He could feel that smile, opening to let the cough out. He spits on the ground. He curves against the wind, lights a cigarette and tries to close his eyes. They feel wet in the cold. 

He had kissed him. There at the Gay Ass club. Ian almost naked against him, just standing there like it wasn’t a big deal. Being out there like that. Just out there like that, all of it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Wasn’t a big deal to have Mickey reach for him, hold him, kiss him. Fuck. 

A smile again, his breath visible with cold and smoke, each indistinguishable from the other. 

He wondered how many songs had passed. He crushes the cigarette under the toe of his boot. He pulls his coat sleeve back, a fist for the bouncer. “Here,” he grunts. “I got a stamp.” The purple stamp a smear below the F U C K on his knuckles. He doesn’t stop walking. 

 

Every song is worse than the last. Just beats and someone wailing the same four words over and over. Everything is pressing in on Mickey, the lights and the sound and all these dudes just kissing all over the place. He feels like he can’t breathe. He slugs a shot back. Eyes closed, eyes back up, catching Ian’s. 

Ian’s smile is slow and easy, a little tilt of the head. For a minute, Mickey can see him at the Kash and Grab, smiling when he thinks he isn’t watching. For a minute, watching Ian move, Mickey can see him running in the sun, the muscles in his back straining against his shirt. Can see him in a basement, saying, _“Don’t do this.”_ He shakes that last one off. Fuck, that seems long ago, all of a sudden. He closes his eyes.

Behind his eyes, all he sees is Ian reaching for him, over and over and over. See him holding him down with his giant fucking body, pressing his fingers into him, mouth on his chest, sucking hard. He can see him turn like he did in the van, surprised, as Mickey’s lips pushed against his. Not like now. He was scared then. _Fine. He can say it. Fucking scared, okay? He was._ Part of him was glad he got shot in the fuckin ass. It gave him time to not talk about it, not think about it. He could just go back to fucking like nothing had happened. Until…

Mickey’s eyes pop back open. He grits his teeth. Everything is just too goddamn fucking much. This is too fucking much. Just all of it, all the fucking time. Especially now. He’d _kissed him._ Here. Then he’d told him what he wanted. Told Ian to get him the fuck out of here. He needed to get the fuck out of here. Fuckin told him. Now. 

He yanks his coat off the stool as he jumps up. Fuck this shit. He’d wait outside. He jerks his head at Gallagher, wipes his mouth with his hand. “I’ll wait outside,” he shouts. “Fuck this.”  
Ian laughs and rolls his eyes. “Last song, I think. It’s gonna be worth it, Mick. I promise you that.”  
Yeah, Mickey needs to get back into that cold. Like, now.

 

He doesn’t know what he expected. This aint summer. It’s not like he expected to fuck in some snowbank or some shit. He didn’t expect to be held up against some fucking freezing brick wall, trip in some tire tracks in the alley on the way to some stairwell and yank his pants down. And yet…

“C’mon,” Ian says. “You’re walking so slow!”  
“I’m not fuckin slow.”  
“Walk faster, then!” He laughs loud, so loud. There is so much white breath in the air around him.

Mickey knows Ian’s mouth is cold. His own mouth is cold. His nose is cold. Ian’s nose is cold. He has a feeling that bubbles up, from his stomach, maybe. Maybe deeper, who knows. He wants to push Ian into any one of those places, any of those cold places, and kiss him. Kiss him and be kissed by him, over and over and over. Feel his whole body get hot. Feel Ian open his coat, slip his cold fingers under his clothes. He wants to feel Ian break him apart. Wants to feel his toes in the snow, water seeping in, wants his breath in Ian’s neck. He wants. 

“Thought you said you were taking me somewhere,” Mickey snaps. “Didn’t know we were having a race or some shit.”

Ian just laughs. “Keep up. Almost there.” 

 

The fuckin El.  
The rage bubbles up. “Not fucking you on the El, Gallagher,” Mickey says.  
“Know you aren’t,” Ian says. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.” 

 

Not too many people. Mickey will give him that. But there they are, anyway, tucked in the back. Mickey lets himself be pressed with Ian’s stupid shoulder next to the window. He half-expects Ian to shove his coat on his lap, try to jerk him off. He’d push him off, of course. Of course. Not here. Not here. 

Where, then? 

Ian looks in his lap. “Not going to make you wait much longer, I promise. I know you’ve been waiting a long time.” He turns his head. Mickey knows Ian’s trying not to grab at him. He can see his hands twitch. He hears Ian’s voice waver. “I’ve been...I’ve been waiting a long time, too” 

There’s something in Mickey that crumples. He has to look out the window. He has to focus on the reflections of the train car. The dark of the city. Ian’s body is so close. He lets out a shaky breath. His eyes burn. What the fuck. Seriously. 

He feels Ian’s hand, Ian’s hand on his thigh. His brain screams _Dad, dad, hold on!_ His eyes wide, scanning the train car, popping on the two other faces in it, way at the front. Old lady, half-asleep. Another lady, reading a book. His body feels ready to jump. Jump where? He’s locked in. He’s locked in with Gallagher’s body, surprise surprise. Shoved into the window. He breathes hard. If someone were to try and grab him, they’d hit Ian first. The thought makes his legs twitch. His stomach churn.

Ian’s breath. His head turning back toward Mickey, voice low. “I’m gonna fuck you as soon as I get the chance, Mick. I wanted to fuck you last night. Wanted to fuck you when I woke up this morning and saw you on the floor. Wanted to wake you up and pull you into my bed, kiss you, suck you down for hours.” 

Mickey wants to punch something. Punch his way out. He’s going to make that sound, that whine he makes, sometimes. He bites it back. “Fuck you, man.” He tries to laugh. 

Ian clucks his tongue, squeezes his thigh a little. “Wanted to make you come last night. I’m going to make sure I do tonight.” 

Mickey does laugh, then. So does Ian. A little. Both of them. “That’s what you’re gonna do, huh? What, here? Some fuckin bathroom? Toddle House?” They laugh, but Ian’s hand keeps sliding up. Mickey lets a breath out, hard, smiling. 

Quiet for a minute. Ian’s eyes are on him. Mickey can see, reflected in the window. “You kissed me. You kissed me, back there.” 

Mickey shoves breath from his nose. “Yeah. I fuckin did, didn’t I?” His eyes don’t move.

Two more stops. Ian’s hand pulls on Mickey’s coat. “C’mon.” 

 

Everything’s too nice, here. Goddamnit. What’s happening? There’s a building, a building with a doorman. He nods to Ian, opens the door. _Who the fuck is this guy, opening the door? Why does he know who Ian is? Long-necked teenager, hand-me-down coat sleeves short from wearing it too many winters. Sure, there’s a nice light leather jacket underneath, but on the outside he’s just another guy who doesn’t belong here, right? Right?_ Mickey’s eyes shoot to the floor. He tucks his knuckles into his coat sleeves. 

But the doorman steps aside, and there they are. Fancy-ass foyer. White and clean, marble or some shit. Nice brassy-ass elevator. Mickey waits for Ian’s fingers to press a button. 

Ian looks above Mickey’s head, chin pointed back around him. He moves them over a few steps. “What the--” Mickey says, but Ian’s pulling him through a door, into a stairwell, his fist in the fabric just above his heart. 

Mickey gasps. He’s pressed against the wall, his head almost hitting some sort of pipe and some fuckin water shutoff handle. Ian’s lips are on his. Ian’s long hands pulling his coat apart. _Oh god, oh god_ His eyes roll back, they close, squinch shut, mouth is open, a high noise rising from his throat. Ian’s fingers pulling his shirt out of his pants, sliding around his waist, fingers cold, nails scraping. 

Mickey could climb the fucking wall. He can’t press his body high enough for Ian to hold. He grabs Ian’s head, fingers grabbing into his hair, pulling their lips together. Ian groans, then pulls away. His eyes dart to Mickey’s. “C’mon. Downstairs.” 

His legs shake. He follows Ian down the stairs, two at a time. The fancy marble giving way to damp cement floor. One door at the bottom of the stairs marked “Emergency.” The other door labeled “Mechanical.” Ian turns toward the one that says, “Mechanical.” He stares long and hard at Mickey. 

Mickey breathes hard. Ian’s eyes are hard on him, unmoving. It makes Mickey look away. He jerks his eyes back, grunts.“What.” 

“Open it,” Ian says. 

“Open what?” 

“The door. Open the door.” 

Mickey’s hand reaches, the letter U falling first. The knob doesn’t give. “The fuck you mean?” 

Ian stares at him. That fucking smirk. His eyes, his eyes. “Open it.” 

Mickey’s shoulder couldn’t push a door down like his brother Jamie’s could. He didn’t have the patience to figure out exactly what the lock needed, pouring over it with a paper clip, card, tiny wrench like Mandy could. But he can shove a knife in and yank it around and punch a fucking doorknob off if he needs to. 

He needs to. 

His hand shoving in his pocket for the pocketknife, heart thumping in his chest. Ian’s arm shoots out to grab his. “Just...just try and be quiet.” And there’s Ian, the one he remembers, so long ago. _Guys! Guys! No fucking guns! It’s just a drunk old lady in there!”_ And there’s Mickey, the Mickey he was, then. Lips in his teeth, thinking of him, turning back. Shy. 

 

But there he is, shoving a knife in, his fist coming down so hard he has to shake his fist afterward, groan “Fuckkkkkk.” But the doorknob comes apart, cradled like a bird in Ian’s long fingers, swings open with a nudge of his foot. Ian’s hand holding Mickey’s sore fist, putting it to his mouth, tongue swiping hot on his skin. The pain is sharp, like the skin wants to break. It makes him gasp to push his fingers out, clenching once, twice. Ian sweeps them into his mouth into his mouth, two at a time. 

Mickey feels like he’s floating. Not really in a good way. He feels the large room around him, a looming feeling, someone about to fly out of the dark around him, hurt him. He keeps leaning back, trying to find a ledge, a table, a door, anything. But it’s just Ian’s arm, his hands, pulling him close, dropping Mickey’s fingers to kiss him deep. He groans, so hard and strange he thinks it couldn’t possibly be him. There is a hum all around them, a heat. It’s not just from them, it’s everywhere around, heat creeping up. 

 

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian says, breaking away. “Wait. One sec.” He turns his phone on. There is a thin ghostly light. There is nothing there, nothing looming. Water heaters, furnaces, cobwebs in the corners. A hard floor. “Gimme your coat.” 

Mickey shucks it off, lets Ian grabs it, toss it to the floor. He watches Ian pull his off before the light from the phone shuts off. In the dark, Mickey fumbles for the buttons on his shirt. He hears the zip of Ian’s jacket that hugs him so perfectly, hears it drip slowly to the floor. He’s breathing so hard. 

“Y’want me to turn the light on?” Ian says. “Like my phone or find a light switch, or…”

Mickey shakes his head before remembering Ian can’t really see him. “Naw. Seen your ass enough tonight already.” He takes a deep breath. Here comes the gay shit. “I’m ready to,“ he breathes again. “Ready to, you know, touch you, or whatever.” 

Ian is sweeping him up again. “Lie down. Floor’s gonna be hard. Sorry.” 

Mickey chuckles. “S’not like a metal table in a walk-in cooler. I think I got it.” 

He can hear Ian smiling. 

Mickey swallows. “Get your fucking pants off.” 

Ian’s breath hitches. “You wanna suck my dick again?” 

Mickey breathes hard, “Gotta suck it whenever you want, right?” 

It’s thick in his mouth. Always thick, always long, always pressing on his throat, making him gasp hard when he pulls off, mouth shining. It’s beautiful. _Fuck, c’mon, it is._ Always just a little too much, always brushing against his mouth, a challenge, a dare. 

“Mickmickmick, wait,” Ian whispers. “Wait. Just a sec. Wait.” 

Mickey snorts, pulling out of his lap. “You gonna blow already?” 

Ian sighs. “It’s been a long time.” 

Mickey breathes out hard. “Tell me about it.” 

Mickey licks him again, slowly, dips his head, twists. “No, seriously, fuck.” Ian leans up, moves Mickey onto his back. God, so slow, but his fingers firm and steady. “God, just too fucking good at that.” 

Mickey is glad for the dark, covering the stupid fucking blush. “I know, assface. Make you blow all the fuckin time.” 

Ian breathes into Mickey’s neck. Starts to lick, starts to suck, waits until he finds the mark he made the night before. It makes Mickey’s hips buck. “Fuck. Ow.” A sigh, thighs shaking. 

“Can’t believe I don’t have your pants off,” Ian says when he pulls off Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey pauses a second. Ian stills. “Mick? You okay?” 

Mickey nods, swallows hard, whispers, “Yes. Yes. Get ‘em off. Let’s fuckin get on with it.” 

He feels Ian’s hand on his chin. His eyes close in the dark. 

“I---” Ian says. “I---” 

Mickey raises his head, tries to grab Ian’s lips. He’s not far off, and they are back to it. Ian’s hand dropping down. Mickey groans as his pants are undone, shoved down with Ian’s toes until they hang off Mickey’s feet. 

“Off. Off. Now.” 

Mickey kicks his feet, shaking them off. His legs slide up, open. The hot air flutters against the deepest part of him. His back does that stupid fuckin thing it does. 

Ian’s lips press into him. His neck, his chest, all the way down him as Mickey sighs, eyes closed, saying stupid gay shit. But he fuckin loves it. Fuck it. He does. 

Ian’s lips clench around his dick, bobbing once, twice, three times. Mickey grabs for Ian’s head, “Woah woah woah. Easy.” and Ian backs off. He moves his body lower, hands sliding under Mickey’s ass, tilting him up to his mouth. _God, this floor is hard. This hard floor. Hard. Fuck. God._

Mickey's legs are pulled higher. Ian’s mouth on his balls, holding him so smooth and safe. Ian’s mouth tipping lower, and lower. Mickey’s eyes fly open. _Fuck. Fuck. What. The fuck._ There is a sound that pulls out of him, like a kite on a string, about to break apart and fall. Ian’s mouth on him, tongue on him, in him. Oh my god, his tongue inside him. Mickey’s legs shake, his eyes water. He can feel so many words in his throat. He clenches his mouth tight. Ian’s tongue pressing all over him, deep inside him, curling slowly around the place he wants him most. His breath hot and soft. Mickey’s head so hard on this floor, hips tilted, Ian’s hands gripping him as Mickey thrusts toward him, tongue and mouth pressing close. _Safe._ The word is the kite’s tail, sweeping in wind, pulling up and up and up. 

“Now,” Mickey breathes. “Please. Just. Now.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it. He just does. He can hear Ian fumbling in the dark. There is something pressing in his eyes, wet and sharp at the corners. Ian’s fingers in the dark, Ian’s breath, his tongue all over Mickey, his hips, his stomach, chest, sucking hard. Neck, cheeks, ears. Fuck. Mickey’s back still an arch with Ian’s hand curving beneath, water under a bridge. 

Wet fingers where Ian’s mouth was. Pressing in, one, two, three, stretching and moving, and Mickey’s mind is back in that room, every room, every hallway, every cold brick wall. God. God. Mickey’s mind is in that van, that basement, those bleachers, that dugout. That store, that alley, here. His mind is full of Ian, over and over again. Ian. 

When Ian pushes in, it’s slow. So slow and certain in the dark, a path, a river, a string. They both gasp. They both say words that are not words. Even in the dark, Mickey knows both their eyes are closed. Ian finds his ear. “Oh god. Wanted this.” They drag deep and slow against each other, twisting. chests breaking apart. 

Mickey’s eyes close harder. He reaches for Ian’s ass, flush against him, breathes deep, rocks his hips. “I--I--” 

Ian’s breath shakes. Mickey’s voice is hard and high against his neck. Ian’s hand is still slick. It slides against Mickey’s dick as he pulls Mickey closer by the hip, pulling him back and forth on his cock. Mickey’s voice is outside of him as they rock faster, a rattle on a windowpane, like a room, his room, so tiny, too close to the El. A rattle, a rumble, no words to describe it. A deep reverberation that wakes you up, then comforts, a thin whine.

“I--I--” Mickey says, again, but his back bows, his breath hitching. That spot. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _It was worth it. It was worth all of it, every minute._ What the fuck is this, really. Fucking on a concrete floor, Ian pressing on top of him. It’s fucking perfect, is what it is. 

Ian’s breathing is ragged. “Feel. Good.” 

Mickey says, “Ian.” 

Ian’s arms are strong around Mickey’s body, holding him so close, hand dropping to pull him fast. “I gotcha. I gotcha, Mick. C’mon. Come,” he says. So Mickey does. He can see light. He swears he can. His back will be sore tomorrow. He doesn’t give a fuck. He’s there. He’s here. Finally. God. He’s here.

 

Did they fall asleep? He isn’t sure. He feels like he did. But there’s Ian, nudging his shoulder. “Mick. Mick. C’mon. We’re probably late.” 

Mickey rolls over, feeling the stretch in his ass, a little. God, he missed that. His eyes roll back in the dark. He remembers that last cigarette he was saving. For this. For now. “Late for fuckin what?” 

Ian laughs. A little too much. “That loft party.” 

“We still goin to that shit?” 

Ian’s face is illuminated by his phone, all of a sudden. He smirks. “Yeah! It’ll be fun.” 

Fuckin’ great. Mickey fumbles for pants, tries to feel for his coat. Ian’s already hunched over his phone, texting whoeverthefuck. Mickey can feel bits of Ian slipping out of him. He likes it. He does. But he knows better. He should. Anyone should. But he’d been eager. He forgot he'd been gone, for a while. Forgot he wasn’t first, anymore. _If you give half a shit about me, Mickey. Half._

 

“Aren’t you fuckin’ tired?” Mickey asks. “We could just…” 

Ian laughs. “C’mon. Get your clothes on.” 

The light is bright when they open the door, Ian’s finger poking open the broken doorknob, gripping it forward, his fingers like _Come here._ Mickey swallows. Those fingers. Mickey blinks against the light. “I really don’t feel like going anywhere, man. Let’s go back to your place. It’s cold. It’s late.” 

Ian swings back to him, pokes a quick kiss on Mickey’s forehead. It feels sharper in the light. “It’s just upstairs. Top floor. You’re gonna love it.” 

Mickey’s coat is messy. It is, from being under him. Ian’s too. The fabric spotted, damp with them. Ian’s slim jacket is fine, though. He zips it up. In the elevator, Mickey sees the deep marks on his neck, his chest. He buttons another button, holds the coats in front of him, tucking the wet parts away. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes. Ian’s smile is fixed, looking at the numbers on the panel. Ian’s hand on his. Mickey wishes it wasn’t so warm. 

Mickey’s reflection in the elevator door. He’s cut in half when the door dings. It splits him open with one smooth swipe. 

“It’s gonna be fun,” Ian says. The carpet is thick and soft in the hall, pattern swirling under Mickey's dirty boots. Not snow. Not cement. “You’re gonna have fun, Mick. I promise” The light is bright, there are mirrors everywhere, bouncing all over each other. For a minute, Mickey isn’t sure which one is him.


End file.
